Gratitude Is An Attitude
by windscryer
Summary: But Thanksgiving Is Just Murder . . . Overtime is overrated. And it hurts. A lot. There be Shawn whump ahead. Rated for language and lots of blood.
1. Never Tell The Spirits You're Bored

This takes place in Season 3, but, uh, no spoilers that I can think of.

Disclaimer: *SNORT* Yeah, because USA would be allowed to air THIS storyline in their comedic lineup. *DIES LAUGHING*

Blame this one on Lu because she's the little vampire that wanted all the blood.

The fact that it's coherent is all because of DG who very patiently explained to me that logic is a friend, not food.

Dragonnan is my cohort in naming. We need to do that again some time and see what plot bunnehs are born! :D

And I didn't put any warnings on, but there is a LOT of blood and violence, so, uh, yeah. If you feel about the red stuff the way Gus does, best look elsewhere for your fic fix.

* * *

The smell of Thanksgiving was in the air, and Shawn was feeling sort of miserable.

It might have been because Gus' family had gone east this year for the holiday.

Or because Jules was at Lake Tahoe with her clan.

Even Karen had left town for the weekend. Which meant Lassie was in charge. And Shawn was banned from the station unless he was in handcuffs or bleeding.

Shawn was half tempted to handcuff himself and go to the station just to be annoying. But he didn't want to take the risk that Lassie's sense of humor had gone on vacation as well.

So he was hanging out in the Psych office doing . . . nothing actually.

Not a single freaking thing.

Apparently no one needed any psychic detectives running loose at their holiday gatherings.

He _could_ go to his dad's house, of course. But the Iron Chef was busy preparing for tomorrow, and Shawn would either get a lecture or be put to work. He wasn't nearly bored enough for either of those.

His mom wasn't due in until later tonight. He had—he checked his watch—four hours until he needed to leave to pick her up.

He _could_ go for a ride on his bike. But it had been an unusually chilly fall, so that wasn't as enticing a prospect as it would normally be.

Holy crap. He was going to have to _commit_ a crime just for something to do at this rate.

The front door opened and closed, and Shawn leaned forward. _Hello._

He stood and walked to the door leading to the front reception area as the footsteps moved toward him.

Was that . . . a _client_? Be still his beating-

He had a moment to meet a pair of blue eyes before they shifted to panic and then were blanked from his vision by the white-out effect that came from being punched in the nose.

The hell?

He bent forward in reflex, hands coming up to cup his nose and feeling the warm gush of blood dripping down his face.

"Ow," he said. He started to straighten, scowling—and cursing in his head at the pain that caused—but he only got high enough to get a good look at the belt buckle of his assailant before his shoulder was grabbed. He was then yanked up and spun around in the same motion.

He had to work to keep his balance from the dizzying movement, but that was only necessary for the three steps it took to push him to his desk so he could be shoved forward again. He landed face down on his desk, wincing at the pain in his rib cage that came from landing on various pointy and sharp things that he kept there.

Note to self: Put pencils and paperweights in the drawers. Exchange for pillows and bags of fresh marshmallows.

He flattened his palms to push up, but his attacker had followed him and kept a hand on his shoulder, pressing down.

"Don't move."

A new and terrifying element was added to the situation when he felt something sharp poke him in the back menacingly.

Until he realized what it was, brow furrowing.

"Dude, are you threatening me with a fork?"

There was a growl as his attacker leaned forward, crowding him in a most uncomfortable way, and hissed, "Shut the fuck up. You're a psychic, right?"

Shawn briefly wondered how he was supposed to both 'shut the fuck up' and answer questions.__

"Right?"

The fork jabbed in harder. Man. He was going to have little dotty bruises there. "Yes! Ow! Yes! That's what it says on the window. I'm a Psychic detective! Can you stop pok-OW!-ing me now?"

The fork pulled back a little, though it didn't retreat completely.

"Tell me where it is."

"Uh, okay," Shawn said, wincing when fork pressed in on his side once more. It wasn't a knife, but you know, it just might be an effective weapon.

If you could get past the ridiculousness of it.

"Where what is?" he asked, twisting his head to try and get a look at his attacker.

Who pulled back suddenly and punched him again.

"OW! Dammit!" Shawn blinked rapidly, waiting for his sight to come back. "Dude! What the hell?"

"Don't play games with me, _Psychic_. You know what I want, and you know where it is too."

Shawn let his eyes close and—barely—resisted the urge to sigh as his father's voice invaded his head.

_I told you this would all come back to bite you in the ass someday, Shawn. I. Told. You._ The smugness and superiority in the tone made Shawn roll his eyes.

_Yeah, thanks, Dad,_ he shot back. _Very helpful right now._

"You better be reading someone's mind or something," his attacker said. "Because I am not playing games here."

"Neither am I," Shawn said, trying to remain calm. "But I have to say that this particular position isn't really conducive to using my gift." He started to push up again. "Maybe if- OOF!" he grunted as he was shoved back down harshly.

"No. No looking at me."

Shawn blinked. Well that would certainly complicate things.

"Can I ask why?"

"I don't want you to be able to ID me to the cops."

Shawn blinked again.

Wasn't he supposed to be reading a mind? What the hell was supposed to stop him from reading _this_ yahoo's mind and learning everything he needed to know to tell the cops?

Hell, what was supposed to stop him from _telepathically_ informing the cops of his current situation?

You know, besides the fact that he wasn't psychic.

Shawn had a feeling that the guy behind him wasn't the brightest crayon in the box.

But then, most criminals weren't.

First things first though. Rescuing his appendix before it was gouged out by his paperclip tray. "Okay, seriously, dude, if you want me to help you I will. But I _cannot_ do so bent over my desk like this. It's uncomfortable and . . . you know . . . sort of creepy."

The guy leapt backward. Shawn exhaled and started to stand before he was barreled into again and shoved back down.

Okay, _OW._ DIY splenectomies were not a good idea.

Especially when your scalpel was a pencil cup.

Not to mention his attacker was now _leaning on him and pressing him into the desk._

And the needle on his creep-o-meter was officially broken.

"What the hell?" Shawn demanded from where he was being crushed.

"Shut up," the other guy said and yanked open a desk drawer, rummaging around.

"Can I help you find something?" Shawn asked. "Uh, besides whatever it is you want me to find?"

"I need scissors."

Yeah, and _that_ was a bad idea. Helping this whack-job upgrade his weaponry from fork to scissors was so not going to happen.

"Look," Shawn wheezed out, trying to inhale and maybe work his hand underneath himself to where that box of random doodads was poking into his pancreas. "I said I'd help you, okay? I'm sorry I insulted your fork. It's a very intimidating fork."

"Shut _up!_" creepy molester man said and smacked Shawn on the top of the head.

Again, _Ow._

"I'm just saying-"

"Ah-hah!"

Oh fuck.

The pressure on Shawn was released and he tried one last time to stand up, but a hand on his back ruthlessly pinned him down.

"Come on, dude. I am being cooperative. Really, letting me up does nothing but help _you_ since I will be able to actually concentrate on what you want from me and not the way I need to schedule a chiropractic appointment."

His answer was a cool breeze against his back as his shirt was lifted.

"Uh?" Shawn said, trying and failing to conceal his growing alarm. "Really, I don't- Hey!" His indignant protest was triggered by the sound of the scissors cutting through his shirt. "Dude! My shirt!"

He got a cuff upside the head before the hand returned to his back.

"Ow! Stop with the hitting!"

"Stop talking and I will."

"Dude, you're cutting through one of my favorite shirts. How the hell am I supposed to-" Shawn's words were abruptly cut off when the hand on his back moved to his hair, got a good firm—painfully so—grip. The hand then yanked and shoved, slamming his face into his desk, reigniting the pain in his poor nose and reopening the clots on the broken skin inside.

Great. Now he was _bleeding_ all over his desk

"Owowowowow," he muttered under his breath, not daring to go any louder. Even he could eventually take a hint.

By this time the back of his shirt had been cut out, leaving a big missing square of fabric.

"Move and I'll stab you with the scissors," he was informed before the hand on his back disappeared.

Shawn stayed where he was.

More cutting and then the sound of fabric ripping followed, and Shawn winced at the fate of his poor shirt. He really liked this one too. It was a nice bright red, and it really looked good on him.

"Lift your head—_just_ your head," he was ordered.

He did so and had a moment to look at his assailant in the reflection of the window between the rooms before a bright red line crossed his vision and then took it over. The blindfold was pulled tight and tied in the back, but Shawn was busy going over what he had seen.

Early to mid-fifties, shaggy beard and mustache, receding hairline, worn but mostly clean clothes. Maybe dirty from a hard day's work, but not, like, hasn't-seen-a-washer-in-a-month-or-more-filthy. His face was as worn as his clothes, rough and wrinkled from too much time in the sun, washed out blue eyes that were as tired as the rest of him, though with a patina of fear over the top of the exhaustion.

He wasn't a criminal. He was just doing what he thought had to be done. He saw no other way.

And Shawn absolutely did not know who he was.

That complicated things.

* * *

Review plz&thx.


	2. Do You Know Where Your Psychic Is

I HAVE NO WILL POWER. LUCKY FOR ALL Y'ALL. :D

* * *

Shawn was yanked up—_finally_—and then jerked around and frog-marched to one of the squishy chairs by the window. He was shoved into one, then—based on the sounds that immediately followed—the blinds in said window were closed.

So, no random passersby would be coming to the rescue then. Fantastic.

The footsteps circled back around until the feet that made them stopped a short distance in front of Shawn.

"Okay," Shawn said. "You're looking for something."

"Yeah."

"And you need me to psychically locate it."

"Yeah."

Shawn's lips pursed.

"Can I ask why the assault and battery and blindfolding was necessary? I mean, you _do_ know that this is sort of my job, right? It doesn't take coercion. Money works just as well—or better. We even take Visa and Mastercard because Gus got us all set up for that."

"Can't pay you."

Shawn sighed. Yeah. He so saw that one coming.

"Okay, well, we sometimes do cases pro bono-"

The footsteps grew closer and Shawn could feel his personal space being invaded as the man braced his hands on the arm rests and leaned in close. "Stop fucking stalling, and tell me where the fuck it is."

"Where _what_ is, dude?" Shawn demanded—or, maybe pleaded. Extended exposure to this guy was not helping his nerves.

There was silence for an uncomfortably long period of time.

Then the chair moved back a little as the man pushed off and backed away.

"You're the fucking psychic. You figure it out."

"Okay, you know what? I may be psychic, but I'm not freaking all-knowing. You have to give me something to work with here, dude."

There was pacing and the sounds of two women walking past outside, talking loudly about something very humorous.

Shawn thought at them as loudly as he could in case he _had_ spontaneously developed psychic powers.  
_  
Call the police. Call the police. Call the police. There is a crime happening right next- No! Stop walking away, dammit!_

"It's valuable," came the eventual response.

Shawn felt comfortable rolling his eyes behind the blindfold.

"Oh. Okay." He _mostly_ managed to keep the sarcasm from his voice. "Well, that's certainly helpful. And reassuring. I'd hate to think I was being assaulted for a worthless piece of junk."

Shawn heard the man approach but didn't have time to even brace himself for the backhand.

Okay, so maybe the sarcasm was stronger than he thought it was. He licked his lip, wincing at the taste of blood and the flare of pain.

He should probably try to figure out what the hell this psycho wanted and get the guy out of there quickly before his smart mouth cost him any more blood.

"Okay. Valuable." He thought back to what he'd seen in that brief moment of reflection.

Would the man he saw be more likely to commit a crime for money or more personal reasons? The fear and hint of remorse said personal reasons. He was also a little bit desperate and unsure of what he was doing, so Shawn felt safe in assuming that this had not been his idea.

"Who do they have?" he asked.

The pacing stopped.

"What?" Oooh, more fear. Bingo.

"Wife?" He flashed in the tattoo he'd seen peeking out from under the man's short sleeve: the bottom of a rose, a name and two dates. The first one wasn't a recent one. "No, not wife. I'm sorry, by the way. She misses you as much as you miss her."

Swallowing, rapid and accompanied by similarly paced breathing. "How- Don't! Don't do that! _I_ don't know where it is. Read _his_ mind. Not mine! _His!_"

Shawn tensed as the footsteps got closer, leaning back even as he tried not to appear as though he was cowering. But, seriously, he'd been hit a lot already. He had good reason to do so.

"Okay!" he said, holding up his hands. "Look, I'm not trying to pry, but I have to follow some sort of psychic trail back to _him_ since you won't tell me who _he_ is. Or what _he_ wants from you. I will help you get-" Flash on the faint hint of perfume, a brand Shawn remembered from when he was in high school. "-your daughter back, but you have to let me work."

Another sharp inhalation and more swallowing.

"Is she okay? Can you . . . see her or something?"__

No, dude, Shawn thought. _I can smell her perfume on you. Which is creepy, by the way._

The footsteps were fast and then the man was hitting his knees in front of Shawn, causing Shawn to involuntarily press back into the chair again. "Can you send her a message? Tell her I love her, and I'm working on it, I swear. I just have to-"

"Whoa, dude! Whoa!" Shawn was really regretting not going to his dad's house. Even dusting the fish collection would have been better than this. "I don't- I can't see her okay? I can't talk to her or pass on any messages. I'm just trying to figure out what's going on here and I got an . . . impression. This isn't like hacking a web cam, all right?"

The man pushed to his feet and paced away.

Shawn took a deep breath as inconspicuously as he could. Holy freaking _crap_.

"Why can't you tell me what it is?" Shawn asked. He needed this guy talking. Shawn was working on it, but he was pretty sure that he'd gotten all the information he could from what he already had observed.

"I just can't."

Shawn stifled a smart-ass comment. Barely.

Okay, change in plans. He needed to get this guy focused on something else long enough for him to be able to send a text to Lassie. Let the police handle this one. He was due to start his Thanksgiving vacation.

"Look, I don't need you to tell me where it is since obviously you don't know that. Just tell me _what_ it is. Anything. Is it animal, vegetable, or mineral? Is it bigger than a breadbox? How about a sandbox? Is it-"

The office phone rang, and they both stopped cold.

Shawn swallowed, wondering who it was and if yelling for help would be a good thing or a make him dead thing.

The ringing continued and then footsteps joined it until the two sounds converged into the same spot.

There was a beep of the phone being answered and then a harsh, "Hello?" was growled. Which turned to panic and desperation in the next second. "Baby? Are you okay?"

Shawn deflated. Yeah, yelling for help to the kidnappers would probably not be a good thing.

Although it occurred to Shawn to wonder how the kidnappers knew to call here . . .

The footsteps retreated to the other room. Shawn said a silent prayer of thanks and dug out his phone, adding a note of gratitude that his assailant hadn't bothered to secure his hands.

He didn't dare touch the blindfold for fear of drawing attention, instead flipping open his phone and navigating the menus by memory, then typing out his message.

_911 at psy off. send cavalry. kthxbai._

He sent it to Lassie, immediately wishing he hadn't. He'd forgotten something.

A second text was opened and he added, _p.s. bring tasers._

Okay. Now he just had to hold this guy off until-

The buzzing of his phone and the riff that was his incoming text message tone made him jump.

He panted, muscles tensing as he waited for his captor to come back, but when the footsteps continued to move back and forth in the other room and the mostly inaudible voice continued pleading, he figured he'd managed to escape notice.

Praying his luck held, he raised a hand and lifted the blindfold just enough to peek out at the screen on his phone with one eye.

_Not funny, Spencer. Go watch a movie. I'm WORKING.  
_  
Dude. That was so not fair. He was in serious peril here!

Scowling he started the next message, then remembered he was supposed to be blindfolded and inclined his head so he could check on his captor.

Who was just turning around. Shit!

He dropped his hand and pretended to be simply sitting there, hands folded innocently and compliantly in his lap.

No secret calls for help going out _here._

The short but sweet, _NOT J/K. LIFE IS BEING THREATENED._ _PLZ SEND PPL W/GUNS,_ was dispatched and Shawn relaxed a hair when he still hadn't been caught. He also took the opportunity to shut off the ringer on his phone, leaving it on vibrate only.

And then tensed right back up when he got another response.

_Oh. Well in that case, I'll be right there._

You know, it shouldn't be possible to sound so sarcastic in a text without a *sarcasm* tag.

Shawn's frown turned to panic, and he quickly shoved the phone under his leg as the footsteps came back his way, accompanied by muttering.

They stopped in front of him and he braced himself based on pure instinct alone, his gut feeling not going unrewarded as hands grabbed onto his shirt front and lifted him up.

Cool air washed over his once more exposed back, but he was more concerned with the warm breath on his face as he was brought very close to his attacker.

"Where the fuck is it?" he demanded. His voice had gone cold, but Shawn could still hear the fear underlying it. Not to mention the slight shake of the fists gripping his shirt.

"Dude, I don't-"

"WHERE IS IT?" the man roared, little drops of saliva making Shawn scrunch up his face and turn away slightly. Shit.

What had he missed in that phone call?

"I don't know," he said, his voice rising despite his attempts to stay calm. "I really don't. I don't know what it is or where it is or-"

Shawn was swung around, and then he was flying through the air.

He wasn't sure if it helped that he could picture his trajectory and therefore knew he was going to hit the lockers, or if it hurt.

Then he slammed into them, the breath rushing out of his lungs as stars exploded into the darkness of the blindfold and his ears began ringing.

Oh yeah. Definitely hurt.

_Owwwwww_.

Gravity pulled him down and he hit the floor with a grunt, instinct making his body work to roll over so he could attempt escape.

He wasn't fast enough even when the nearing footsteps gave him the needed impetus to try harder to move away.

He got as far as his knees and was trying to go up and forward at the same time in a runner's start, but he didn't even make it halfway up before his shirt was grabbed and he was spun around and slammed into the lockers again.

The handles on two of the doors dug mercilessly into his back and he felt skin tearing followed by the sensation of liquid sliding down his skin.  
_  
Dammit_. He so did not need to be bleeding somewhere else.

And then his unwanted guest was speaking, and he forgot about the wounds for a moment.

"I have two hours to come up with a location. _Two_. _Hours_. After that, he's gonna start carving my baby girl up like a Thanksgiving turkey. I won't let that happen. Which means _you_ have two hours to come up with an answer for me."

Two hours? Hell.

No one would miss him in the next two hours. He still had over three until he needed to leave for the airport, and _that_ would get him to the airport half an hour before his mom's plane was even scheduled to land.

She probably wouldn't be looking for him for another half hour after that, and she wouldn't be _worried_ for at least another twenty to thirty minutes after _that_.

Shawn was pretty sure right now that, in five hours, he was already going to be dead.

**

* * *

**Review, plz&thx!


	3. Please Hang Up and Try Again

Are we ready for the violence? :D

(No, I do not consider the first two chapters violent. You'll see why. ;D)

* * *

Trying to stay calm—and frantically telling himself not to panic—he swallowed the lump in his throat and wished Gus and Jules hadn't gone on vacation.

Or that Lassie had freaking taken him seriously.

He didn't cry wolf _that_ often did he? In fact, he was having a hard time thinking of a single occasion when he'd flat out lied to the police about needing them to come somewhere.

_Slightly_ exaggerated the importance or urgency, maybe. But he'd never called them over to just _hang out._

"Look, I am more than willing to help you, okay? But maybe we should refocus our efforts. Instead of trying to locate the . . . whatever it is . . . maybe we should focus on trying to locate your daughter?"

"I'm supposed to call when I've got it. He said if I get anywhere _near_ them, he'll slit her throat."

Shawn's own throat tightened. "Oh," he said in a slightly strangled voice. "Well, yeah, that could be a problem."

"Yeah. It could be," was the sarcastic response.

Shawn was swung around again and dragged across the floor once more, his feet barely able to keep up with the long strides of his assailant. It didn't at all help that he was still blindfolded.

Even if he could _see_ the office layout in his mind and knew that—_OW_—he was going to bang his hip on the desk then, it didn't make it any less disorienting to not be able to _actually_ see where he was going.

He was shoved, and his hands reflexively came up to grip the arms of his attacker. The man shook him off, and Shawn fell into his chair with a pained sound for the unpleasant sensation of landing awkwardly on his tail bone and almost falling out of the seat. He grabbed the arm rests and pulled himself right back up but had no warning whatsoever when the fist hit his face.

And then again.

And then _again_.

The hell was that for?

He blinked dazedly behind his blindfold, afraid to move for fear it would get him another punch.

Even when the footsteps retreated, he stayed right where he was, ears pricked to the sounds of a drawer being torn open and rummaged through.

He followed the progress from drawer to drawer to box to locker until it stopped abruptly halfway through one of the lockers.

"This'll work," psycho whack-job muttered and came back toward Shawn.

What would work? He tried to think of what was in that locker—knew it was the second from the left but couldn't think of the contents.

And oh man. He couldn't remember. It took a pretty high stress experience to make his memory fudge out on him.

But, you know, being threatened and manhandled and then out of freaking nowhere _punched in the head three times_ like he had been so far sort of qualified under 'high stress experience'.

He didn't even think about it when the footsteps approached, his own fight or flight response kicking in. He pushed his feet against the ground to roll backwards away from the oncoming unknown—but certainly painful—encounter about to happen.

He started to twist the chair, hoping he could make a run for it, but, before he got even halfway, the arm of the chair was grabbed and his progress was halted.

"Oh no you don't."

He ducked down and lunged for what he sincerely hoped was open air, mentally preparing to twist and bolt out the door. He could worry about the blindfold when he was out of reach.

It might have worked, too, if not for a foot that was placed in his way and a hand that snatched his arm and yanked, throwing him all off balance and sending him to the ground to land on his side. He was yanked back up and thrown back toward the chair, that landing no less painful. And kind of more so because the chair had angles unlike the floor.

A hand landed on his chest to pin him down and a knee hit the cushion between his legs, causing him to scoot back as far as he could, lest he take a crippling blow to that very sensitive area. The sensation of being loomed over was strong.

The hand on his chest vanished and he almost was able to breathe in relief—except the knee was still there. The hand came back into the picture as his right arms was forced to line up with the arm rest and then something tight was wound around the wrist. It took Shawn a moment to recognize it as a bungee cord. He gave a tug just as the other wrist was locked down and tied up tight, his attention shifting to that limb as he tried to find some slack.

Then the longest bungee—and now Shawn could _definitely_ recall what was in that second-from-the-left-locker—was looped around his chest and pulled tight, the two hooked ends looped into each other behind his back. Breathing became much more difficult and his skin burned where the elastic band dug into it.

"I'll help you find her, I _swear_, but please let me go," he said, pleading for his sanity—and probably his life as well. "I won't run. I promise. I'll stay right here and help you figure out where the thing you're looking for is. _I swear_."

"Oh I know you will," the voice said.

And then something unexpected happened.

The blindfold was removed, yanked down to hang around his throat like an odd necklace that matched his shirt a little _too_ well.

Shawn blinked in the light, and his eyes automatically went up to see the face of his captor. Gone were the fear and hesitation. The mask looking down on him now was cold and determined.

Oh. _Fuck_.

This was so not good.

So so so so _so_ not good.

Because he hadn't wanted Shawn to see his face so he couldn't be identified to the cops.

And if it no longer mattered if Shawn saw his face . . .

He swallowed the thick lump of fear lodged behind his Adam's apple.

Well, obviously Shawn telling the cops wasn't going to be a worry any more.

Why the _hell_ hadn't he gone to his dad's house again?

"Where is it?"

Shawn's mouth ran dry.

"I- I don't-" He could barely speak. His heart was pounding loud in his ears, but he knew that it wouldn't make that much of a difference. His voice was just above a whisper from sheer terror alone. "I don't know. I'm sorry. I don't-"

The punch rocked his head to the right, sliding the chair across the floor a few inches.

He tasted blood on his lips again, the old cut as well as a new one contributing to the nauseating taste and feel filling his mouth now.

"I don't know what it is. I don't even know why you're _here_. Why me? Why come here?"

Another punch from the left and he choked on the blood running back into his throat. The insides of his cheeks were on fire from where they'd been cut on his molars.

"Please. I don't underst-"

From the right again.

"I don't kn-"

Left.

"Please-"

Right.

"_Ple_-_"_

Left.

And then Shawn wasn't given any more chances to speak.

"Tell."

Right.

"Me."

Left.

"Where."

Right.

"It."

Left.

"_Is_!"

Shawn's head hung forward, the bungee around his chest keeping him upright, his breaths coming in and out in rough, gasping pants as he fought the restriction and the fear. His vision was in shades of gray and he was trying not to gag from the sheer taste of metal coating his entire mouth.

"_Please,"_ he all but whimpered, staring at the knees of his tormentor.

His hair was grabbed and his head was yanked back. He hissed from the new dimension of pain this brought into play. He was going to have whiplash that was for certain, and now he was afraid he'd have bald patches as well.

"Please," Shawn panted. "I can't-"

The phone rang again and they both froze, same as before.

Shawn's eyes darted that direction as did his captor's, and then he was released with a shove. Ow. Dammit. Owowowow. His neck hurt and his _hair_ hurt and-

His assailant just gave the phone a long look until it stopped ringing. He grunted in satisfaction and turned back to Shawn, who cringed and prayed for the phone to ring again.

It didn't, but there was a buzzing sound from the chair he'd been in that worked just as sufficiently as a distraction.

With a scowl, his attacker stalked over and snatched up the little vibrating phone, giving it a rather dark look before opening it and holding it to his ear.

He listened for a few seconds, then said, "Spencer can't come to the phone right now. He's busy."

He snapped it shut and dropped it to the floor, then stepped on it for good measure. This was followed up by going to the wall where the office phone was plugged in and yanking the cord--and most of the outlet--from the wall.

"Now where were we?"

"Please," Shawn said as he drew closer. He hated sounding like a broken record, but he didn't know what else to say. "Please don't do this. I'll help you. I will. Just don't-" He hissed as his hair was grabbed and his head yanked back once more.

"WHERE IS IT?!" the man roared in his face.

"I don't know!" Shawn yelled back, his voice cracking. "I don't know. I don't- _Why?_" he plead. "Why can't you just tell me what it is?"

Those pale blue eyes flicked back and forth, measuring him, weighing him, and then his hair was released and the man stood up to his full height.

"He said if I told anyone—_anyone at all_—he'd make my little girl pay by cutting out her tongue."

Shawn blinked. And again.

"But . . . if you told them what he wanted? Or what was going on?"

"He didn't say," the man said with a shrug. "He just said it was here and that I had to get it from you. But he hasn't cut out her tongue yet. I talked to her on the phone, and she was still okay."

Shawn frowned, trying to process what he'd been told through the pain. There was something important in all of tha-

"Wait, he said it was _here_? As in, here in this office _here_?"

The man nodded. "This was the address he gave me."

Wow. Shawn was officially baffled. And that was especially annoying because it _really _hurt to frown right now.

Although, that did explain why the kidnapper knew to call here. But what the hell could possibly be here in this office that was worth kidnapping and threats of torture and murder—not to mention _actual_ torture?

"1365 Catallina Avenue. That's the address you were given?"

A scowl darkened the face above him.

"Yes! 1365 Catallina Avenue! That's here. That's _right_ _here._ Now where the fuck is it?"

"WHAT?" Shawn asked. "Where is _WHAT_? I have no idea what you want! Or what _he_ wants! Or what _anyone_ wants! All I know is that I was sitting here minding my own damn business in my own damn office and now I'm being fucking _tortured_ over the location of some damn thing that-"

"TELL ME WHERE IT IS!"

"WHERE _WHAT_ IS?"

_"THE BAG OF DIAMONDS!"_

Shawn blinked again.

Then squinted.

"Wait, what? _Diamonds_? Dude. The guy who has your daughter? He's nuts. And not like Planter's nuts. We're talking so deep into the woods of insanity that the crazy bears can't even find him. He's not just off the map, he's off the damn _globe_. There are no diamonds here. Trust me. I would know. I know every single thing that is in this office. I can pinpoint the exact location of anything you want in here—except a bag of diamonds. Because there _isn't_ one." He snorted, then winced when it aggravated his abused nose.

"Ow. Seriously, though. Do we look like a place that keeps diamonds? I have a deck of playing cards in my desk drawer, and Gus has Ultimate Solitaire on his computer, but those are the only diamonds I-"

Large, well muscled fingers wrapping around his throat cut off Shawn's words.

Shawn's eyes bugged out as he gasped for air that wasn't coming in.

"It has to be here. He said it was, and if I don't get it back in the next-" He checked his watch and then turned it so it faced Shawn. "-hour and a half, my little girl is going to die. Slowly and painfully. And if she dies slowly and painfully, so will you."

* * *

Review, plz&thx!


	4. There Will Be Blood

Srsly. NO WILL POWER. Not that any of you are complaining, right? :D

* * *

Shawn choked and gagged, trying to suck in air through the crushing hand on his neck. He could feel his face getting hot as the blood rushed into it, his wounds throbbing painfully with the increased pressure. His chest was tight and his lungs twitched convulsively, trying, aching, desperately _needing_ to pull in air. His vision greyed out and his hands and feet jerked in pathetic, futile attempts to gain leverage and free himself.

He mouthed a plea for mercy, for release, for air, but only met a cold stare.

His body was jerking now, bucking for freedom and escape from this—as promised—slow, painful, _terrifying_ death.

His strength was fading, his spasms weakening, his vision going dark.

And then his throat was released. He gasped, breathing in so sharply it sent bolts of pain shooting through his body, and he ended up coughing, jerking, and twitching again as he tried to curl up into a ball.

"Where is it?"

Shawn couldn't have answered if he wanted to he was coughing so hard, tears leaking out of his eyes as the air traversed his bruised and irritated throat. There was a brief moment of panic when he coughed so intensely that it triggered his gag reflex and he started choking, trying hard to not throw up.

He was already a mess with the blood and the spit and now the tears and snot. He really didn't need to add puke to the mix.

His hair was grabbed, and his head was yanked back. He couldn't help the cry of pain, almost a whimper, as that movement sent all kinds of messages racing along his nervous system's pathways.

"Where. _Is it_?" was growled into his ear, so low and close it sent chills racing down Shawn's spine.

"I don't know," he rasped out in a whisper, his voice gone, vocal cords crushed. It was going to take them a little while to bounce back from this. He winced and swallowed, feeling the saliva grate on his throat as it passed over the abused tissue. "I don't-" He coughed and hacked and more tears welled up and spilled over because _fuck _that _hurt_.

He didn't know how much more of this he could take.

And he didn't want to die.

Not here.

Not now.

And sure as hell not like this.

"Please," he begged. "_Please._ I don't- I don't know of any diamonds or any bags of diamonds or- or- I don't _know_."

He looked up and met the eyes of his torturer and put everything he had into willing the man to listen to him. He didn't know how else he could make it clear. He couldn't tell what he didn't know.

Uncertainty flickered in the man's eyes.

"_Please_," Shawn repeated, hoping to capitalize on the doubts. "We can call the cops. I know them personally; they're good people, and they're good at what they do. They can get your daughter back safe and-"

The uncertainty guttered and died.

"No. No cops."

"I won't press charges, I swear. You're desperate. I get that. I don't blame you for being desperate. Anyone would be in your situation."

The man turned away and started scanning the desk.

Shawn felt his heart rate speed up. As if it wasn't already going a mile a minute.

"We'll tell them someone else did it. That you found me like this. You'll be a hero! It'll be great! And then we'll save your daughter, and everyone goes home ha-aa-aa- What is that for?"

His captor had picked up the fork from the desk, abandoned early on in the afternoon/evening's events—and Shawn's brain took a moment to again wonder what the hell was up with a fork as a weapon—and turned back to Shawn.

Who swallowed.

"What, uh-" His eyes flicked between the fork and the cold eyes above it. "What are you planning to do with that?"

The eyes went to the fork and he shook his head. "You're right. I can't."

Shawn exhaled and nearly went limp with relief.

"Oh thank G-" The rest dissolved into a strangled squeak when the fork was dropped and the drawer was yanked open, the letter opener he'd gotten as part of his payment on a case once pulled out. The blade was turned, the expression regarding it thoughtful.

"This will work much better."

Shawn felt the blood drain from his head so fast it made him dizzy.

"Work better for what?" he asked in a strained whisper.

The letter opened was set down, but Shawn didn't feel relief. Especially when the hands it had occupied came forward and gripped the collar of his shirt, spreading with a harsh rip of fabric and baring his chest.

Not that it had been salvageable after the back was cut out, but this just added insult to injury. This shirt was _so_ ruined.

The letter opener was reclaimed, and Shawn whimpered and pushed with his toes, backing his chair up until it hit the wall.

"Please. No," he panted, breathing getting more difficult with each moment. "No, please! _Please! No! NO!"_

One hand came to rest on his shoulder, the other holding the blade steady.

It wasn't terribly sharp and, actually, that wasn't much of a consolation at the moment.

Then it was being pressed to his skin, halfway between his lowest rib and his hip, not hard enough to break the skin just yet.

"Where is it?" he asked one last time.

"I don't know. I don't know. I don't know. Idon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon'tknowIdon't-AUUUGH!"

The dull blade dragging across his skin was agonizing, the very dullness of it making it hurt that much more.

"IDON'TKNOWIDON'TKNOWIDON'TKNOW! _PLEASE!_ I DON'T _KNOW!_"

"You have to know. You have to tell me. I can't get my Marlene back without them."

Shawn's world stopped spinning for one moment, one bright, hot, painful moment of clarity.

"What did you say?"

But his tormentor wasn't listening.

"Have to find them. You have to know. I can't get her back without them."

Another slice, and Shawn cried out, panic that made his previous alarm look like mild, fleeting concern flooding his brain.

"M-Marlene- AUGH!" He panted his way though the after effects of another slice, an inch above the first and second. He was going to look like he was some freaky merman with gills if this kept up. "Marlene W-woodbury?" he managed to whimper out.

The blade froze, pressed down, but not slicing in just yet.

"What did you say?"

Shawn gulped and gasped and then repeated himself.

"M-marlene Woodb-bury. Is that-" Another swallow. "Is that your daughter's name? Is your name Daniel Woodbury?"

The blade pressed down, bruising, but not _quite_ cutting.

"How did you know? HOW DID YOU KNOW?" The weapon came up to Shawn's throat.

His heart took off like a yearling colt at the Kentucky Derby.

"Sh-she was kidnapped in 1989. You didn't call the police because her kidnapper said not to. He said he would- he would kill her if you did. He wanted you to find something. You never told the police what. You- you killed a man, an insurance agent, Victor Preston, he- he was working in the offices that used to be here. The ones that this building replaced. It was late. You broke in and tortured him. You killed him because he couldn't tell you where it was." Shawn gulped and almost passed out at the realization.

"And now you're going to kill _me_. You're going to- Oh G-AUUUGH!"

His head fell back as white hot agony lanced through his side, blanking out his vision and hearing for a long moment. He panted and tried to suck air in, but that hurt worse than just holding his breath.

Finally he lifted his head and let it fall forward, staring in shock at his stomach.

Red dripped obscenely from the three slashes starting close to his belly button and moving upward along his side. And above them the letter opener stuck out, the handle the only part visible.

His eyes stretched wide at the sight.

"GUH. GUH- GUH- OH G-"

The front door exploded inward with a shower of shattering glass.

* * *

Review, plz&thx!


	5. I'm a Doctor, Not A Oh Right

Dude, loving how much all of you loved this story. Maybe I'll do this again some time. ;D

* * *

Four sounds immediately followed the door's destruction. First there was sound of more glass falling to the ground, then the door hitting the wall as it was thrown open. Pounding footsteps moved in after that, along with shouts of, "GET DOWN! GET DOWN! GET DOWN!"

Shawn was unable to comply for reasons of both physical restraint and just simply shock.

His eyes were locked on the silver handle of the knife—because as dull as it was, he had been cut and _stabbed_ with it, and so it was, now and forever, a knife in his book.

And then the handle was obscured, worn, peach-colored flesh wrapping around it.

Shawn had half a second to think, _This can't be good_, before the grip tightened and yanked. The pain washed over him again, taking him right to the edge of consciousness.

When sight and sound returned, it was to the deafening explosion of gunfire and the sight of bright red spots exploding from Daniel Woodbury's chest**.**

Shock briefly passed over Daniel's face, then his eyes latched on Shawn's. Blood stained his teeth as he mouthed, "Marlene_."_

And then he fell backward, collapsing in a loose-limbed pile.

Shawn stared at him, not quite able to comprehend what he was seeing. It took a moment for the voice being shouted into his ear to penetrate his shock.

"SPENCER! _SPENCER!"_ He blinked, then lifted his head and turned to see Lassiter.

"I wasn't joking," Shawn said. "I wasn't. I know I lie about a lot of things, but I wasn't lying about this. I swear."

"I know," Lassiter said, his hands moving on the bungees tying down his wrists, freeing them quickly. Shawn hissed as the blood rushed back into the deprived appendages "I'm sorry I thought you were. I tried to call you back when we found out where he was headed, but- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He looked down, breath sucking in sharply at the sight of Shawn's injuries. Shawn followed his gaze.

"It hurts, Lassie. A lot."

Lassie's face was grim as he looked up again. "Yeah. I'll bet it does." He turned and shouted. "Where the fuck is that medic?!"

Shawn was vaguely aware of the hustle and chaos that had descended around him, but his eyes had landed on Woodbury's body. He looked almost as bad as Shawn with all the blood that had leaked and gushed out of the bullet wounds before his heart stopped.

His head tilted. Or, well, fell to the side. Same thing."He wanted to know where the diamonds were."

Lassiter's eyes shifted to the cooling corpse, then back to Shawn, his hand pressing down on the stab wound to start the pressure until the damn medic found his fucking way to them.

"Was that what he was supposed to find? Diamonds?" Lassie snorted. "When they arrested Kavros back in 1991 for Marlene Woodbury's murder he confessed that there never had been anything to find. He just needed an excuse for Daniel Woodbury to search for something besides his daughter."

Shawn shook his head. "No, there _were_ diamonds. Kavros said in prison three years after that, right before he was executed, that the thing he told Daniel to find was real and that he knew where it were all along. He took that secret to his grave."

Lassiter was watching him closely, frowning.

"Spencer, he was just fucking with everyone's heads. He changed his story a dozen times in prison, from how he kidnapped her to what he did to her before he burned and buried her body. There's no way of knowing what was real and what was a lie."

Shawn smiled weakly. "Sure there is, Lassie. You just gotta know who to talk to."

"What are you saying, Spencer? You know where the diamonds are? You talked to Kavros from . . . beyond the grave?"

Shawn laughed. "Don't be silly, Lassie. My dad told me never to talk to strangers and creepy sadistic murderers. Especially dead ones."

Lassiter's frown deepened, but before he could ask more the medic _finally_ showed up.

"Sorry, sir!" he apologized. "There's kind of a traffic jam at the door."

"You're a fucking medic, and we've got a wounded man here," Lassiter snapped. "Tell them to get the fuck out of your way next time."

The medic blushed and ducked his head. "Yes sir."

He went to work on Shawn, assessing and applying field dressings that would get him to the hospital, trying not to let the weight of Lassiter's stare affect him _too_ much.

Lassiter could only stay until the stab wound was patched and his hand was no longer needed as a pressure bandage. He was, after all, acting chief right now and he had a crime scene to run.

"McNab!"

"Yes, sir!" came the quick reply, the tall officer bounding over, having no trouble getting through the crowd.

"Stay with Spencer. Ride with him to the hospital and keep me updated on his condition."

McNab's head bobbed up and down. "Yes, sir!" He crouched by Shawn's side where Lassiter had been and said, "Hey, Shawn."

Shawn blinked tired eyes open. "Nabby?"

He got a blinding smile. "Acting Chief Lassiter told me to stay with you."

Shawn smiled. "Awes'me. You're coming in the amb'lance?"

McNab smiled back. "Sure am."

Shawn lifted a fist. "Sweet. Can you tell them to run the siren?"

McNab grinned and bumped the offered fist with his own. "I don't think we'll have to ask."

"Awes'me."

Shawn's eyes drifted shut after that, though he was vaguely aware of things around him. He was more than vaguely aware of being moved from the chair to a gurney since it hurt so damn much, but shortly after that the drugs he'd been given at some point started to kick in. He began to float above the pain.

Which was pretty freaking awesome. He felt like he was flying. Whee!

McNab laughed, and Shawn suspected he might have said that last part out loud.

Oh well.

There was a bump as he was loaded up into the ambulance, and then the drugs _really_ kicked in. He found the world around him fading away. The last thing he was aware of was the screaming siren overhead clearing the path for him to the hospital.

Sweet.

* * *

Review, plz&thx.


	6. Epilogue

I'm sick.

And when I'm sick, I sort of . . . um . . . how do I say this? My IQ plummets like Dubya's popularity in regards to the war in Iraq.

SO I'M POSTING THE NEXT—AND LAST—CHAPTER. WHEE!

* * *

Shawn spent Thanksgiving day—and Black Friday—in the hospital.

He was mostly unconscious for both of them.

By the time he awoke on Saturday morning, he found he was not alone.

Gus and Jules both were there, and both apologized profusely for being gone when he was attacked.

He waved the concern off. Like they could have known somehow that it would happen. He was supposed to be the psychic one.

Besides, after twenty years of near-catatonic behavior that resulted in extreme compliance from Woodbury, no one in the mental hospital he had been committed to had any inkling that he was planning to break out and go crazy on the anniversary of his daughter's abduction.

And if _they_ didn't know, how could anyone else? They were the ones who saw him every day and knew him best. Not to mention they were supposed to have the inside line on what crazy people would do, being psychologists and all.

The fact that he didn't hold his friends responsible didn't stop Shawn from milking the guilt for all it was worth. But for little things like pineapple smoothies or picking the place for lunch. Stuff he probably would have gotten them to do anyway. This just meant he didn't have to work as hard at it.

He spent a week on mandatory downtime—ordered by Lassiter and upheld by the Chief when she returned—and then, one morning in early December, he called Gus and Lassiter and Juliet and—well, pretty much every one in his contact list that he considered a professional acquaintance of sorts. Oh, and his dad, just because.

If Shawn had to sit through a three-hour diatribe when he was too drugged to move—but not drugged enough to ignore the droning voice of his father in full-on lecture mode—then his father could sit through one measly little fifteen-minute presentation.

Once everyone was assembled, Shawn began.

"I called all of you here today to finally bring peace to a young woman who has been waiting twenty years for this."

He leaned a bit more of his weight on the sledgehammer propping up one of his arms and said, "Marlene Woodbury disappeared in late November of 1989. Her father was in communication with her kidnapper for nearly a week, taunted with promises of his daughter's safe return as long as he cooperated with the demands he was given. One of those demands was to locate a bag of diamonds Kavros knew were hidden here. The spirits generally agree that he did this because he was freaking nuts, though some say he had other reasons." He leaned forward slightly, hissing and forcing everyone else in the room to lean forward as well. He waved them off, then picked up the sledgehammer and rested it on his shoulder.

"For many years it was believed that the diamonds were a lie told by Kavros to keep Woodbury busy while his daughter was being tortured."

Shawn swung the hammer down and around, burying it in the sheetrock of the back wall. He pulled the head free as Gus made sounds of distress for the damage being done to a building he was half responsible for.

A second swing broke off a large section of the sheetrock, and Shawn thought about going for a third until his side gave a rather strident protest. Two would probably be enough anyway.

He lowered the sledgehammer as gently as possible so as to not damage the floors too, then bent to one knee and reached into the wall. It took only a moment of digging through the gypsum dust and paper strips before he found what he was looking for.

He pulled it out and held up his prize.

"I give you the Kavros diamonds."

Shock was the predominant expression in the room. Henry mostly stifled a snort.

Lassiter stepped forward after a moment and took the bag from Shawn, undoing the dusty gold rope on the black velvet pouch. He poured out a handful of sparkling, shining diamonds of various sizes into his palm.

"But how-" he started.

Shawn grinned and used Lassiter's arm to pull himself to his feet.

"I don't talk to crazy murdering ghosts. But I do, on occasion, talk to their victims."

Lassiter put the diamonds back in as the others crowded around.

"Shawn, that was incredible!" Juliet praised.

"Yeah," Gus said. "But did you have to knock such a big hole in the wall?"

Shawn looked down at his handy work. "Little spackle, little paint, it'll be good as new!" He slapped Gus on the shoulder, leaving his hand there since Lassiter had shaken him off.

Gus shook his head. "As long as you're the one who's going to be doing the spackling. Preferably _before_ our landlord sees it."

"Of course I-" Shawn put a hand to his side and winced, hunching forward slightly. "Ow. Then again, I'm not sure construction or office repair is on my list of doctor-approved activities."

"Neither is riding your bike, and yet you got yourself to work this morning."

"Thank you, Mr. Spencer," the chief interrupted. "Your assistance in closing this case is much appreciated. But maybe next time, you shouldn't put in those extra hours over the holidays."

Shawn grinned. "No worries, Chief. I'm taking two weeks off for Christmas and New Year's."

"I'm going to go ahead and suggest you start now. We'll see you in January." She looked to her detectives, and then they left, Lassiter with a nod to Shawn, both apology and acknowledgment, and Jules with a brief peck on the cheek that had Shawn staring in wide-eyed wonder.

"I'm glad you're okay, Shawn," she said. There was a moment of hesitation, then she ducked her head and turned away. She paused at the door and turned back. "Merry Christmas and a happy New Year." She hurried out the door, leaving Shawn with his best friend and father.

Once they were gone, Gus turned to Shawn. "Okay, I'm still a little confused about this whole thing. I mean, Woodbury was crazy, right?"

"That's how he ended up in a mental hospital instead of a prison," Henry said. "His lawyers used the insanity defense." He shrugged. "Back then it still worked."

"But then how could he get a call from Kavros—who is dead—while he was here torturing you and speak to his daughter—who is also dead?"

"He didn't," Shawn said. "I was curious about that myself, so I checked the phone's caller ID log. _We_ got a call from a telemarketer. I thought maybe he was just crazy—which he was—but then I did a little investigating and it turns out the representative who called us? Her name is Marlene and her company's pitch includes starting off with introducing herself. As for the rest, Woodbury just heard what he wanted to hear." Shawn frowned. "Or, you know, whatever."

Gus' eyebrows marched up his head. "Seriously?"

Shawn nodded. "Yep," he confirmed, popping the 'p'. "I'm guessing Marlene's Thanksgiving dinner included a story of the crazy guy who thought she was their kidnapped daughter."

Gus shook his head as if to rid himself of the insanity of that . "One more thing: How did you know where they were?"

"That's a much more fortuitous coincidence. Remember when we were painting the office right after we moved in?"

"You mean when _I_ was painting and you were looking at travel packages for all the cool places you were going to go once you became rich and famous as a private psychic detective?"

Shawn's head bobbed. "Right, when we were painting the office."

Gus rolled his eyes and Shawn continued.

"I noticed something odd right there," he said, pointing to the new hole. "It was an X, but in the same color as the rest of the wall." He shrugged. "I always wondered what it was, but I got distracted by other stuff and never thought to go back and find out."

"Until now," Henry said.

Shawn nodded. "Of course. And after I did a quick check into the history of this building that revealed that it was built by George Carlsson . . ."

Gus and Henry frowned when Shawn stopped, then Henry's eyes lit up and he snapped his fingers.

"Carlsson was the last name of Kavros' partner. Well, up until Carlsson went missing."

"Yeah. I suspect Kavros got a little peeved when Carlsson took the diamonds from one of their joint heists and hid them where Kavros couldn't find them. He seemed to know that they had been hidden in one of the buildings built by his partner's brother, but not which one. And by the time he'd narrowed it down, there was someone in here."

Gus frowned. "But why kidnap Woodbury's daughter and make _him_ go after the diamonds? Why not break in and search for them himself? Or torture Carlsson until he confessed where he'd hidden them?"

Shawn shrugged. "Because he was crazy? Who knows?"

"He did torture Carlsson," Henry put in. "At least that was the assumption when he was found dead, looking like he'd been run through a meat grinder several times. Obviously Carlsson didn't give up his secret though."

Shawn winced. "Well then, maybe I got lucky, because Woodbury definitely didn't know enough about torture to turn me into sausage." His head tilted. "Although he was doing a decent job of carving me up like a turkey."

"And on that note, I'm going home," Gus said.

"Or you could come over and have the Thanksgiving dinner that we didn't have last week because Shawn was in the hospital," Henry invited.

Shawn frowned. "You never had it? Mom flew all the way out here for it, and she was only here for the weekend."

"You expected us to have it without you, Shawn? You were in the _hospital_. What were we going to be thankful for?"

"I don't know. The fact that I wasn't _dead_?"

"Yeah, well, it's kind of hard to focus on that sort of thing when your son is getting a nutrient drip and jello for Thanksgiving dinner. Especially when you spent three days preparing the food."

Shawn rolled his eyes. "So now I ruined Thanksgiving?"

"No, Shawn, I'm not saying that. But Karen had a good point. What the hell were you doing here at work? Everyone else was on vacation. I'd think you'd have jumped at the chance to be somewhere else goofing off."

"Yeah, well . . ." Shawn trailed off, and Gus took the opportunity to jump in.

"Shawn and I already ate dinner, Mr. Spencer. But if you've got any pie-"

Henry scoffed. "Gus, it's Thanksgiving. Of course I have pie."

"Wait," Shawn said. "There's pie? I've been looking for it all week! I thought it was gone!"

"That's because I hid it," Henry said. "You needed to eat something _other_ than pie."

Shawn pouted. "I eat things other than pie."

"When there is no pie available," Henry agreed. "It's exactly the same thing you do with pineapple. Now come on," he said with a slap to Shawn's shoulder. "It's getting late, and Gus wants his pie." He led the way to the door.

Gus followed, and Shawn brought up the rear, still pouting. "I want pie, too."

Henry rolled his eyes. "And you can have some. Now come on! And next time, if I find out you're working alone on the day before a holiday, you're grounded."

"It wasn't even my fault!" Shawn protested. "Everyone left me!"

Henry nodded, pausing before he climbed into his truck. "Good point. We'll just have to make sure that doesn't matter next time. You're grounded as of Christmas Eve."

"But- I- You-" Shawn spluttered.

"Get in the car, Shawn," Gus advised. "Before he takes away your pie, too. You know he'll do it."

Shawn was still grumbling as he climbed in the passenger side of Gus' little blue car.

Gus nodded. Henry smiled and returned the nod, then climbed in his truck and followed Gus out of the parking lot.

Everything would be better after pie.

* * *

THE END. ZOMJ. *misses it already*

When I'm feeling better and actually able to write coherently, I definitely need to write more like this.

THANKS SO MUCH FOR ALL THE LOVE!

But leave me one more review? For the road? *puppy eyes of doom*


End file.
